THERE are clues when someone is a cautious soul.
They memorise emergency telephone numbers, save for a rainy day, arrive 20 minutes early for every appointment they’ve ever had and never leave home without a clutter of essentials – aspirin, tissues and Kendal mint cake (in case they get stranded on a mountain).
I am very much in this vein, and do all of the above.
But there is one more trait that marks our breed out.
Our intense and morbid fear of the cold.
We wear gloves in July, never take our scarves off and wouldn’t dream of leaving the house without a coat.
If you want to upset us, make us wear flimsy T-shirts and stand in a draught.
Come nightfall, the policy continues.
It is very difficult to separate us from the English propriety of pyjama wearing.
We have studied history and learned its lessons.
Marilyn Monroe wore Chanel No 5 to bed, and look what happened to her.
For 50 weeks of the year this is nonstop cow-print/paisley/candy stripe joy: but as we are currently experiencing some kind of summer, there is a stick in the spokes and no mistake.
It is swelteringly, painfully hot.
A few days ago I had to shed my standard warm woollen socks and hoody or risk dissolving in my own sweat.
Which left me with only fleecy joggers, polo neck vest and a light cardigan. I felt like Jordan, flaunting the lascivious flesh on my wrists and ears without so much as a lined bonnet to protect my modesty.
And then on Monday my sensible house of cards fell down when I made the horrible mistake of watching a documentary about Ian Brady before bed.
I have much past experience of watching horror films or disturbing programmes and then living in misery for weeks as my brain replays the worst bits on a loop.
It was weeks before I could go to the loo on my own after The Omen.
Before I knew it it was 3am and I was waking from a nightmare where Ian Brady and Myra Hindley moved their horses to my stables and I had to look after them (the horses, not the child killers).
The bad dream had driven my body temperature so unfeasibly high that I was about 10 minutes from spontaneous combustion.
My mouth was as dry as sand and eventually I had to wake up Sleeping Beauty and get him to escort me to the kitchen for a glass of water and a comforting chat about the rarity of psychopaths.
Unfortunately we could not leave the bedroom window open in case one decided to climb in, so the night past restlessly in a haze of perspiration.
I must stay strong and remember that in a few weeks the leaves will fall and I can go back to wearing my full knitted armour.
The mothballs are calling.